Caught in the Fading Light
by brickroad16
Summary: While out for a ride, Morgana comes across a peasant woman in distress. When Uther refuses to offer aid, Morgana sets off alone and Merlin tags along. Set between seasons one and two. Slight M/M.


Disclaimer: I don't own _Merlin _or its characters.

A/N: So, I have no idea where this story came from, lol. But it popped into my head, and I wrote it fairly quickly, so here it is. Part of my current agenda is that I'm trying to write fewer AUs and more stories that could reasonably happen within canon. This story is set between seasons one and two. And I tried really hard to stick to the Merlin/Morgana state of friendship at that moment in time, but sometimes they're just too darn cute, lol.

Two places I don't adhere to show/legend: Morgana's mother and Gorlois's grave (I don't even know if I spelled that right, haha). But as they're not huge details, I think it still works.

The title comes from Howie Day's song "Longest Night."

* * *

Warm morning sunlight dapples through the trees as Morgana and Gwen trot through the forest. The spring day is pleasant, and Morgana's grateful for the temperate weather and the opportunity to get out of the castle for a few hours.

An otherworldly wail resonates in the distance, and Morgana turns sharply in her saddle toward the noise.

"Did you hear that?" she asks her handmaiden.

Gwen nods, apprehension apparent in her gaze.

Without hesitation, Morgana spurs her horse onward through the forest, toward the cry. Within a few minutes, they arrive at a clearing, where a middle-aged woman kneels in the leaves, cradling a body and weeping loudly.

Morgana pulls her horse to a stop, drops lightly to the forest floor, and ties her mount's reins to a nearby branch. She approaches cautiously, and the scene slowly becomes clearer. The boy in the woman's arms is young, most likely her son, his gangly arms hanging down awkwardly. He's not even old enough to have any hair on his chin, and his wan cheeks make him look even younger in death.

The blood across the front of his tunic and the spread of bodies around the clearing are enough to paint a sufficiently gruesome picture of his last moments.

Morgana's heart sinks as she watches the woman gently rock her unresponsive son. She crouches down a few feet away.

Hesitantly, she ventures, "Please, what happened?"

"Oh, my son," the woman sobs. "He didn't come home last night. There were rumors of a raid. So I went looking, and here he is!"

Morgana frowns, swallowing down the tears threatening to rise to her eyes. Even in grief, her words are coherent enough, but there are no details for Morgana to grasp onto for elucidation.

_Only fiends could have done this_, she thinks as her eyes fall again on the body.

The rage, the sense of stark injustice come quickly, as they always do, as she expects. She is in a position to help. How can she fail to act?

She glances back at Gwen, hovering at the edge of the clearing, uncomfortable yet feeling.

Turning back to the woman, Morgana asks, "Is there anything we can do?"

The peasant takes a deep, hitching breath to calm herself. Swiping her eyes dry with one hand, she shakes her head. "This isn't your concern, my lady."

"Still, there must be something I can do."

She looks helplessly around, her gaze stopping on each corpse. They're all young; they all look so harmless, so innocent. What possible offenses could these men – these _boys_ – have committed to deserve such a fate?

"Let me at least return with some soldiers to help dig a grave," she finally offers, wanting to give so much more but not knowing where to start.

* * *

"Please," Morgana pleads, "give me two men."

"Absolutely not," pronounces Uther, looking away as if the matter is settled.

"One burial, that is all I ask. We can burn the rest. We will return before the day is out, and you will never notice the missing soldiers."

"We need all the men we can for the armory inspection today. Besides, the boy was in league with sorcerers, Morgana. He does not deserve a burial."

Morgana's brows narrow in anger. "And who are you, to deny him basic human rights? And his mother, inconsolable in her heartache? She, at least, will benefit from seeing her son given a proper resting place."

"I am _king_," Uther fumes, his voice low, and Morgana knows the conversation is at an end.

* * *

It's too dangerous for Gwen to defy the king, but Morgana's disobeyed him often enough that her concern for that poor boy and her anger at the king's blind hatred cloud her fear for her own wellbeing.

One of the benefits of being the king's ward is that no one seems to question where she goes or what she does. All she needs to do is walk with her chin raised and her gaze straight ahead, and soldiers won't question her. After procuring a pair of shovels, some ointment, two sheets, and some rope and packing it all in a saddlebag, she saddles a horse and leads him out of the stable without even being addressed by the hostler.

She rounds the corner of the stable and stops the horse. Before she has a chance to mount, though, a familiar dark-haired servant with oversized ears and a gawky gait appears and takes a hold of the reins.

"Merlin," she smiles, the sight of his friendly face a welcome one.

"I'm coming with you," he announces softly.

"Merlin," she frowns, her shoulders sagging, "it's not safe. If the king finds out . . ."

But he shakes his head and presses gently, "I want to come."

And there's something in his downcast eyes that gives her pause, something she recognizes all too well.

Though she doesn't ask, he explains, "Arthur was charged to lead a raid against a small band of sorcerers yesterday. When they saw the knights, they got . . . scared, and things became chaotic." He pauses, fiddling with the buckle on the saddlebag before continuing unevenly, "I was there, my lady. I want to come."

He doesn't have to say anything else. She nods, and they set off toward the forest.

* * *

The sun is past midpoint in the sky when they return to the clearing. The bodies are all where they've left them, but the woman, Mary, has laid her son's body beneath a tree and attempted to wash off the blood.

Merlin, when he sees the carnage his prince has caused, falters. But Morgana gently touches his arm, and he comes back to his senses.

"My lady," Mary says as she stands and greets them, "thank you. You did not have to come back."

"I gave you my word, and although I couldn't bring soldiers, I did bring a friend. This is Merlin."

"Merlin, thank you."

Merlin simply nods and swallows thickly before moving to unpack the shovels.

They dig the grave under a thick, towering yew tree close to Mary's home, and Morgana's glad for the shade it provides in the afternoon heat. They work mostly in silence, which suits Morgana just fine. She can dwell on righting a wrong and leaves Merlin, who seems too distracted to talk much, to his own thoughts.

He's . . . different than others. She's never met a man who displays his emotions so openly, but she finds that she likes it. Merlin is a refreshing presence in a sea of tedium.

After an hour of backbreaking digging, she begins to tire. She's forgotten to bring water, and the sound of a babbling brook in the distance proves to be too great a temptation.

"I'm going to take a break, go get some water," she tells Merlin, expecting him to accept the chance for a few moments' break from work.

But he just nods and dumps another shovelful of dirt onto the mound around the deepening hole.

She runs a hand across her forehead to wipe away the beading sweat and only succeeds in smearing dirt. Shaking her head, she says, "No, Merlin, you should rest, if just for a few minutes."

"That's okay. I'm not tired."

"That well may be, but I am. So would you accompany me to the brook?"

He looks up, finally stopping in his labor. He leans an elbow on the staff of the shovel and pauses to regain his breath.

"Of course, my lady," he says. "Of course."

And though it's irksome that he is listening to her only because she is his lady (she will pretend a quiver does not go through her heart when he says the words) and not because she is obviously concerned for him, she will take what she can get, especially when he's so out-of-sorts.

Mary directs them to the stream, which is only a few minutes' walk away. Morgana kneels on the bank, washes the dirt from her hands, and leans down to raise her cupped palms to her lips for a drink. She keeps her eyes on the gently trickling water as Merlin kneels beside her and drinks.

Quietly, she ventures, "It isn't your fault."

His shoulders stiffen slightly, but he doesn't immediately react. He takes another long gulp and sits back on his haunches. His brow furrowed, he answers, "I should've done something."

"How could you have? Arthur had orders. If even he cannot go against Uther, how can you?"

Merlin's countenance darkens like he's bursting to say something, but he schools his expression and says, "Men are dead, good men. A mother laments her only son, whose only crime, by all accounts, was to be born with a gift. How much more pain will I cause because I don't speak up?"

_A gift_.

She knows she should comfort him right now, but his words set her senses on alert. True, he is only a manservant, but he is the crown prince's manservant. And if the crown prince's manservant doesn't believe that magic is evil, corrupt, a reason to kill, then perhaps there is hope.

And suddenly, with the heat of the afternoon sun on her face and the murmur of the stream in her ears and a lowly peasant's words in her heart, she begins to see Merlin in a new light.

She's liked him certainly, and enjoyed his company, enjoyed the little things he would do for her and her alone. But she's never seen him as anything but another servant when, all this time, he's been the kindred soul she's been seeking.

She shifts to face him. "Merlin, you cannot blame yourself. Uther's atrocities are too big for one man to prevent. The fact is you're here now. And where is Arthur? Where are the men who slaughtered these boys? You're a good man, Merlin, and you are more than making up for your silence. Trust me," she says feelingly, "I've seen enough men to know when I'm looking at true nobility."

"Thank you," he murmurs shyly, though he doesn't look quite convinced.

But at least he looks at her now. He's been avoiding her gaze all day, and she finds that she's missed the comforting dark blue hue of his eyes.

A smile crosses his lips while he watches her, and she tilts her head in a silent query.

"You have dirt all over your face," he laughs. "Sometimes I don't know how you and Arthur manage to do the things you do."

She blushes with embarrassment, amazed that a servant's words can so quickly make her reevaluate what she's known all her life. So what if Arthur can swing a sword and she can . . . What _is_ it she's good for anyway? Bringing in revenue from her father's estates? Arguing on behalf of the people when there is no one else to do so? Looking beautiful beside her guardian and foster brother?

He is a peasant – a _servant_ – and yet he forces her to listen to the stirrings of discontent and restlessness within her heart.

"Perhaps it's my disguise," she chuckles, dipping her hand in the stream and running her palm over her face.

"Well, it's not a very good one. You'll need more than dirt to hide that beauty," he says unthinkingly, then looks away quickly, a flush rising to his pale cheeks.

Morgana smiles, pleased, and Merlin busies himself with unknotting his scarf, dunking it in the water, and wringing it out.

"Here," he says softly as he takes her chin in his hand and dabs at her brow, "it's mostly on your forehead."

She's used to people fussing over her, but this is different, more intimate somehow. Maybe it's the fact that they're practically alone in the woods, or that they're sharing such a morbid task, but she's never felt so connected to another human being.

"Thank you," she says softly after he pronounces her as clean as the summer sky on a cloudless day.

He takes his hand away, and she has to stifle a gasp at the loss of his touch. She hadn't realized until now how reassuring the feel of another's skin against her own could be. But such a thought is more inappropriate than she's willing to admit, and she pushes it out of her mind before it can take too deep a hold.

* * *

The sun dips dangerously low in the sky by the time Merlin lets out a ragged breath as he dumps a last shovelful of earth onto the newly-filled-in grave. Mary stands across the gentle rise of dirt, eyes downcast and silent tears streaming down her face.

Suddenly, their efforts seem so futile. They haven't got a priest, haven't got anything to help this woman now that she's lost the only person who stood between her and destitution.

All they've got is a makeshift cross made out of two sticks and some prayers. And Morgana's not even sure anyone's listening anymore.

Glancing up, she's surprised to see a single tear course its way down Merlin's cheek. He sniffles and wipes it away, pretends to not notice her intent gaze.

She swallows hard and, hesitantly, slips a hand into his. He relaxes at the touch and responds by lacing his fingers through hers.

And for a few moments, they cease to be a lady and a manservant. Sharing grief, sharing responsibility, they're two common people learning the cruel ways of the world.

Here, they're friends.

* * *

Mary invites them in for a modest dinner, but as it's nearly sundown and they've already been missing the entire day, they respectfully decline. Morgana, though, promises herself that she'll return soon with some meat and grain for the widow and now childless mother. The field she toils in is small, but even the loss of one laborer will affect her harshly.

Merlin takes the horse's reins, but Morgana chooses to walk beside him rather than ride. They walk in silence, which is unsurprising considering how quiet he's been all day.

Once they're some distance down the path, Morgana gently asks, "Is everything all right, Merlin? Back at the grave, you seemed . . ."

_Upset_? _Pained_? _Distressed_?

None seems to be quite the word she's looking for.

Merlin swallows and says, "What if it were _my_ mother? I'm all she has. If this were to happen to me . . ." He trails off, his jaw clenched as if the thought is too much to bear.

"It won't."

"But if it were, who would comfort her? Who would take care of her when I'm gone?"

"If that were to happen, and it won't, then I hope you will allow me to look after her, if it would ease your mind."

She looks away, out toward the darkening trees, because who is he to draw such promises from her lips?

"You would do that for me?" he asks, surprised.

She's hurt that he has to ask. She's not used to doing things for others without something in return, but even so, she knows that, were their situations reversed, Merlin would do the same without a thought of reparation.

"Of course," she tells him sincerely.

They fall back into silence, with just the rustle of the wind through the trees and the slow _clip_-_clop_ of the horse's hooves to distract her thoughts.

There's a memory she has, one which only comes in her worst nightmares and in her lowest moments of despair. She recalls a dazzlingly bright morning, the sound of the birds in the trees. She's small, so small, and yet surrounded by a crowd of people who seem so large and imposing to her eyes.

Like columns in an ancient monument.

They circle her, watch her carefully, occasionally pat her on the shoulder in condolence.

She's not stupid. She's ten years old, old enough to know her father's not coming back. There's no need for them to be so patronizing.

He's buried in a monument, the massive tombstone resting at the crest of a hill. When everyone else has retreated, Morgana stays. On her knees, head and hand pressed to the warm stone, it's almost as if she can feel him there with her again. She breathes in deeply, breathing in his strength and vitality. She's all alone in a world that won't value what she can offer, but her father had made her feel precious, feel safe. Faced with a life without him, she has no choice but to use the gifts he's taught her to honor him, to find her place.

Too soon, her nurse comes to gently pry her away, and she's taken to Camelot the next day, rushed away in her grief, never to be truly alone again. There are always people about, always a handmaiden or a servant asking if she needs anything, always Uther wanting to know if Camelot suits her. And always Arthur doing his best to annoy her.

But then she meets Gwen, a sweet face amongst the confusion, and she finally has someone to talk to.

There's another memory, even more infrequent than this, in which she sees a woman with raven black hair, sea green eyes, and the kindest smile she's ever known.

In her arms, she's never felt so loved.

But for some reason, with this boy, she seems to reclaim some of that warmth, that tenderness.

"I barely remember my mother," she tells Merlin.

"And I never knew my father," he says with a small smile.

"Birds of a feather, then," she replies with a smile of her own.

"Your mother," he begins, "was beautiful, so much so that her beauty would have been renowned throughout the kingdom had it not been surpassed only by her kindness."

It takes Morgana a moment before she realizes what he's doing. But when she does, her smile grows and she says, "And your father was quiet, but wise. A craftsman, maybe, the sort of man who can spend the whole day at his work without noticing the passage of time."

Merlin chuckles, and she realizes how, to everyone else, he must not seem that dedicated. But she's seen him with Arthur, knows how hard he works. And whenever she looks into his eyes, she can see the underlying passion he keeps hidden so much of the time.

A gleam in her eye, she adds, "And he had your ears."

The assurance in her voice earns a belly laugh from Merlin, who turns to regard her with a lopsided grin.

"Oh, no, don't subject him to that fate," he grins.

"What are you talking about? Your ears are wonderful."

"My ears have been called many things, but never 'wonderful.' 'Large,' 'oversized,' never 'wonderful.'"

"Well, _I_ like them."

"Should I wear a badge that says, 'The Lady Morgana approves of these ears, so you should, too'?"

She laughs and shakes her head, but there's a part of her, buried way deep down, that won't admit to what she's really thinking.

_No, no badge. Those are _my_ ears_. _We can't have everyone suddenly approving of them, now can we?_

But she doesn't say anything, just looks down at the ground self-consciously.

After a few minutes, she takes a deep breath and begins hesitantly, "What you said before . . . You believe magic is a gift?"

"Yes," he nods, without even thinking about it.

"You don't believe it's evil?"

He purses his lips thoughtfully before sighing. "I believe evil things can be done with magic," he answers. "But I also believe it can be a force for good. It simply depends on what the person chooses to do with the gift he's been given."

"You have no idea how good it is to hear you say that, how comforting it is to finally have someone to talk to."

"I think I do."

And there's a gratefulness in his voice that surprises her. She gets the sense that there's a hidden side to him she's never seen, maybe no one's ever seen, and, not for the first time, she wonders why she's never made the effort to get to know him better.

* * *

"My lady," Gwen breathes as Morgana walks tiredly through the door to her chambers.

The handmaiden's eyes sweep over her grimy trousers, her muddy tunic, her dirt-caked hands, but she makes no further remark.

"Have I been much missed?" Morgana questions, hoping no one besides the ever-observant Gwen will have noticed her absence.

Gwen shakes her head. "The king and prince have been too busy with the armory inspection."

"Of course. Then perhaps Uther never noticed I was gone."

"Let us hope not," Gwen offers, worry in her voice.

Morgana smiles at her friend's concern. Despite the state of her clothing, she pulls her into a brief hug and plants a kiss on her cheek.

"Thank you, Gwen. I don't believe I've told you lately how appreciative of your friendship I am."

* * *

Morgana returns to her chambers in the afternoon, smiling when the scent of fresh flowers fills her lungs, and she looks up to see Gwen arranging a bouquet of wildflowers.

"I believe you know who these are from," Gwen teases.

Morgana picks up the vase to give the flowers a hearty sniff. "They're beautiful."

"Shall I go thank him for you?"

Sighing, she runs her fingers lightly over the silken petals. "No. Thank you. I'll go."

She finds him slacking off on his duties, taking a nap under a tree in a nearby field. He's snoring lightly, and his mop of unruly black hair is matted to his forehead in the afternoon heat. A grin springs to her face at the sight. Instead of waking him up though, she slides onto the ground beside him, slips her hand into his, and rests her head against his shoulder.

And she falls asleep, her mind filled with images of sunshine, wildflowers, and magic.


End file.
